


Run Me Like the Numbers, Roll Me Like the Dice

by innie



Category: The Devil in Winter - Lisa Kleypas, Wallflower Series - Lisa Kleypas
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - They're American Now, F/M, Modern Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:34:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21554767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Probability says they should never work.
Relationships: Evangeline Jenner/Sebastian St. Vincent
Comments: 22
Kudos: 78
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Run Me Like the Numbers, Roll Me Like the Dice

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blithers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blithers/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide, blithers!
> 
> (Title by Billy Joel; beta by victoria_p (musesfool), who did her usual awesome work.)

Sebastian looked at the girl shivering on his doorstep and wondered if he was supposed to recognize her. Even in the winter darkness, her eyes were enormous and pleading, and he felt his stomach settle; he had no sense of mercy and anyone who knew him would have known that supplication never worked. "You lost?" he asked, tone gentler than he meant it to be, but she looked so young.

"H-hi, um, Sebastian?" she said. "D-do you know h-how to g-get in touch with Lilly? Lilly Bowman?"

He should have put a shirt on, but he'd rolled right out of bed to answer the soft but relentless tapping that had woken him, and now he was freezing. She didn't look much better off despite wearing an enormous black waterproof jacket. "Why would I?"

"Is-isn't sh-she spending w-winter b-break with your friend M-Marcus?" The girl sounded genuinely surprised, and he was idly curious whether that was a legitimate stammer or merely the effect of the cold making her teeth chatter.

"Alright, come in," he said, watching as she stepped gingerly into the bar and walked forward with the care of the tremendously drunk. "How much have you had to drink?" he asked, a little amused but ready to boot her back out if she looked ready to visit Puke City. He flipped on the lights, aware that dawn was too far away.

"I'm eighteen!" she said, sounding shocked.

"Yeah?"

"W-what?"

"Never mind. Get your phone, I'll give you Marcus's number." If he could get woken up, Marcus could get the same treatment, and all the better if this girl woke up Princess Lilly too.

"I-I, um, I d-don't have a phone." She bit her lip, the pressure of her teeth whitening where she gnawed and shocking some color back into the rest of her full mouth. "M-may I p-please use yours?"

He didn't know why he felt compelled to warn her. "He might not pick up if he sees it's me." They'd had a _discussion_ about freshman girls who thought they were God's gift — Lilly was who he'd meant, and his best friend had unsurprisingly read between the lines — that had ended with Marcus's knuckles on Sebastian's jaw. He straightened defiantly, despite Marcus's absence; what was the loss of a brother when he'd lost all his sisters and his mother already?

"A-are they v-very f-f-far?" Alright, that last word's ridiculous elongation had been caused by shivering, so he herded her further in and saw that what he'd taken for merely an extremely puffy puffer coat that would be sensible protection against the weather was in fact a thin little jacket stretched over an outlandishly large backpack. The girl was a snail, carrying her house on her back, it seemed.

"Skiing in Colorado. Poor reception."

She nodded bravely but he could see that her courage had just run out. "Th-thank you anyway. I'm s-sorry, I didn't m-mean to w-wake you up." She turned and trudged — that peculiar stride was most likely because her feet were aching, he realized at last — for the door. "Thank you, S-sebastian."

Fuck. "Wait," he said, throwing out a hand that was meant to clap her shoulder, but at this ungodly hour he was as fumble-fingered as she was tongue-tangled, and he snagged her watch cap instead. Loosed from its confines, a shock of the brightest hair he'd ever seen fell to the middle of her ribcage. He'd definitely remember hair like this; the girl must be visible from _space_. "Who are you?"

*

Evie closed her eyes like she was five years old again and still believed that as long as she couldn't see anyone they couldn't see her either. She'd never had to work very hard for invisibility — far better to be invisible than a constant reminder of all the lives she'd apparently ruined just by being born — so she shouldn't be surprised that Sebastian St. Vincent had overlooked her every single time she'd set foot into his bar with the friends she'd made in Intro to British Fiction. Lilly was the life of every party and Annabelle had a flawless face and figure that drew stares. No one in their right mind would have been looking at _her_ when she was with the two of them.

The hand gently tugging one of her scattered locks surprised her and her eyes flew open. "Hey, I asked you a question."

Right. She did owe him an answer for his courtesy in opening the door to her. "S-sorry. I'm Evie."

Not even a frown could diminish his overwhelming beauty. "And you've been in here before?"

She couldn't move, not when he was holding her hair like a leash, not even to nod. She'd have to _use her words_ like Uncle Perry liked to say, taunting her. "Y-yes. I'm the g-ginger ale?"

There wasn't a spark of recognition on his perfect face, but he was still holding her captive and she couldn't look away. She summoned up all her courage and reminded herself that Uncle Perry was two thousand miles away. "C-could you help me?" she asked.

He tossed the curl back at her. "Sorry, no white knights here, Ginger."

"O-obviously," she blurted out and he grinned at her, crossing his arms, probably to warm himself up a little but all she could see was the outline of thick muscles framing flat brown nipples.

"Help — _my_ help — doesn't come for free, sweetheart. What do you need?"

*

So the girl had some spice. Between that and the fire of her hair, he couldn't deny that he was tempted, but a stammering teetotaller had to be more trouble than she was worth. "You don't need to guard your bag with your life, you know," he said, flipping one of the chairs off the nearest table. He snagged her cap off the floor and set another chair to rights opposite hers.

She shot him a look he would have called suspicious if she didn't seem so damn _innocent_ , then undid all the fastenings of her crumpled jacket that was no thicker than a discount garbage bag and began the apparently arduous process of unclasping every buckle of her gargantuan backpack. It fell to the floor with a solid thump, affirming the weight of it, and he could see that she was wearing a hideous fleece shirt that was redeemed only by the way it clung to her breasts. She bent over to retrieve something from the backpack and the collar of her shirt belled out and he could see she wasn't even wearing a bra. Those stupendous breasts were all natural, and maybe she _would_ be worth whatever trouble she was bringing along.

She caught him staring but didn't seem to realize he'd been assessing her unbound tits, and actually apologized for how unpolished she looked. "S-sorry, th-they didn't g-give me a lot of t-time to p-pack up."

"Who?" he asked, finally sinking down into the second chair to keep her comfortable enough to spill everything. 

She stammered her way through a long story while he watched her plump pink lips and the slowly dawning insistence of her nipples that the air of the bar in the middle of the night was too cold for comfort. He wasn't exactly paying the closest attention but he was sure he'd grasped the essential points: her dad paid her housing allowance by way of monthly deposits on the 20th of each month but the fee for January had for some reason not gone through and so _on Christmas Eve_ she'd been rousted out of bed and told she'd be allowed back in her dorm once she paid for the privilege of living in a cinderblock cell more fit for solitary confinement than academia. There was something about a scholarship that covered her classes, so she needed to stay close for when the next term started, and asking her family for help was not an option, because there was some rift between her dad on the one hand and the rest on the other. Presumably, that was why she was looking for Princess Lilly, whose family was from here and could offer her a couch to sleep on.

Only, he thought, a bed would be better, and he just happened to have one. Her tale of woe was obviously just some accounting error that would get cleared up as soon as the offices reopened after the holidays — plus Lilly and Marcus would be back tomorrow night and would hustle to take her off his wicked-as-the-big-bad-wolf hands — and in the meantime, he wanted her. A day and a half with a natural redhead built like a brick shithouse and brimming over with gratitude sounded like exactly the Christmas present he owed himself, really. "Look, you can stay with me until Lilly gets back," he offered, pasting his most sincere expression on his face, "or until we can get all of this sorted out."

She had a glorious smile that lit her up enough that he thought for a split second that dawn had broken. "R-really? Th-thank you, Sebastian."

"My pleasure, sweetheart," he said, scooping up the backpack that she must have filled with rocks for it to be this heavy and awkward and gesturing to the stairs that led up to his apartment. She shot him another look of startled gratitude and started climbing the stairs, feet uncertain. He wanted to take a bite out of the round ass two steps in front of his face.

*

Lilly had grown up in Boston and knew all the salacious gossip about the hot bartender at Blue Ruin, and she hadn't been shy about sharing it. And Evie had seen for herself an improbably high number of girls walking out from the back of the bar looking completely rumpled and flushed and watched Sebastian retake his place behind the bar without a particle of shame in his expression. One of those girls had gone back to her cluster of friends and announced that she'd enjoyed her exotic vacation to _St. Vincent_ — which she pronounced the French way, like St. Tropez — and planned a return trip later that week. Evie, sitting at the next table, had blushed for her but still not been able to suppress a little curiosity; there was no doubt he was as beautiful as an angel, but what diabolical skill did Sebastian have that there was practically a line of gorgeous girls just dying to spend twenty minutes with him in the back of a bar?

She was never going to find out firsthand; she didn't exactly look like any of the girls he _favored_ , however briefly, with his attention. But getting twenty minutes with him hadn't been the goal, not when her dire straits were real and she'd had nowhere to turn until a memory gave her the idea to go to him. She'd heard more than anyone was meant to, on her way to the ladies' room last week, of an argument that devolved into a fight and centered on Lilly. If Sebastian was as upset as she suspected about being punched by his best friend, she'd reasoned, surely he would leap at the chance to prove to Marcus that he was capable of disinterested benevolence in aid of one of Lilly's friends? She'd bet everything on him, hoping he'd get her in touch with Lilly, and here he was, offering her a place to sleep and more help in the morning; she'd won big.

Only she was so worried and exhausted that she couldn't savor her victory. She stumbled at the top of the stairs, for some reason vaguely expecting another step to climb though she could see well enough by the light he'd left on. Any faint hope of coordination was long gone.

"Whoa," Sebastian said, his hand, mortifyingly, landing on her wobbly bottom to steady her from behind. "Easy there, Evie."

"S-sorry," she said, flushing like doing her beetroot impression would help anything. "J-just t-tired, that's all."

"Adrenaline's probably messing with you," he said, nudging her aside to climb the last step and put her backpack down against one wall.

She slid a sidelong glance his way, was reminded all over again of the beauty of him, and turned away decisively. That was when she saw her newest problem: there was only one bed in his apartment. Of _course_ there was — he wasn't running a secret dorm above his bar. Though why he limited all those _exotic vacations_ to brief encounters up against a wood-paneled wall in the back of his bar instead of bringing the girls up here she had no idea.

As beds went, it looked very nice, chocolate and cream blankets piled on top of sheets that were a beautiful stone-blue, precisely the color of Sebastian's eyes in shadow. It was thoroughly rumpled, and both pillows were lying askew, because she'd dragged Sebastian out of it less than an hour before. Thinking of him warm and sleepy, she blushed again, knowing she was blowing past beetroot and into full-on tomato territory. "Oh," she said involuntarily.

"I'm going back to sleep and I think you should too," Sebastian said, walking ahead of her and pointing briskly. "Bathroom's here, kitchenette's here, thus endeth the tour."

"Um, thanks," she said, scurrying back to her backpack to retrieve her toothbrush and pajamas. She brushed, peed, and changed, quick as she could, and returned to the bedroom. Sebastian was lying in bed — still shirtless, she noted — on the near side, which meant that she'd have to climb over him. Of course she nearly fell on top of him, too cold and tired to be graceful, and ended up nose to nose with him instead thanks to his quick reflexes. "G-good night," she whispered when her head finally hit the feather pillow on her side of the bed.

"Good morning, Ginger," he corrected, with what sounded like a laugh.

She lay there, willing sleep to come now that she was safe for the next few hours, but she couldn't manage it. She darted a glance at him and saw that his pale eyes were open and fixed on the ceiling.

"Can't sleep in a strange bed?" he asked, surprising her not just with his empathy but also by the fact that he'd known she was awake at all, since she'd been so careful not to disturb him.

"Y-your b-bed's not s-strange," she said before she could think, but having another person in the same room — let alone the same bed — _was_. She needed a distraction, something to focus on that wasn't her own exhaustion, and then sleep would hit her with a wallop; that was how she'd slept the night before her AP Calculus test, her scholarship interview, and a handful of other momentous occasions. "Too t-tired to s-sleep, I think," she admitted.

"I can't sleep if you can't," he said, sounding far more patient than she'd have expected from a man with a reputation like his. "Come here."

Not knowing what he was after, she inched cautiously closer, taken completely by surprise when he rolled her swiftly to her side and slotted himself behind her. His arm was draped over her hip and her toes were warmed by the folds of his thick pajama bottoms. "Merry Christmas, Evie," was the last thing she heard before she fell asleep.

*

Sebastian woke up with his back nicely toasty from strong morning light and his arms full of soft warmth. Evie had draped herself over him in her sleep and turned so those pouty lips — blowjob lips — were just touching his chest. He could feel the imprint they were making over his heart and eased himself out from under her. He turned off his phone alarm before it could go off and startle her awake and headed for the bathroom. When he returned, he lingered at the foot of the bed, taking in the picture Evie made. She was stretched out to take over the warm spot he'd left, and the blankets had slipped down enough for him to see that her breasts were soft and loose under a t-shirt that said, awfully, _Mathlete!_. She hummed and shifted, and his vision narrowed to a single point, a freckle on the underside of her chin that seemed to glow like a spark of light, the last of the summer sun imprinted on her luxuriously creamy skin.

He wanted her _now_.

He reached out and traced her ankle with his fingers, the tight elasticized hems of her grey sweatpants a thick, prosaic barrier to exploring more of her skin. "Evie," he said, wondering for the barest moment what her full name was. "Evie," he repeated insistently, smiling when she made a sleepy, questioning noise. Her eyes opened just enough that he could see drowsy blue in the parting of tangled lashes, and she smiled dreamily up at him. "Are you awake?" he asked, keeping his tone indulgent as befit a Christmas morning. 

She nodded but with no real conviction. She blinked at him a few times and he could see the moment when her brain came back online. "Wh-why are y-you up?" she asked, starting to sit up.

"A beautiful girl in my bed always gets me _up_ ," he said, and she went from cream to rose in a single heartbeat. "Would you care to help me out?" There was _no way_ this was going to work; Lilly had practically made Marcus propose before she spread her legs, and though he was ninety-nine percent sure Evie was a virgin, she'd probably been coached by her awful friends not to trust him or be any less high-maintenance than they were.

He nearly lost his breath when she looked carefully at him and then nodded again. "Yes," she said quietly when he still didn't move, and she only looked apprehensive when she saw just how wide a smile he was wearing.

He wasn't going to question her decision, just help himself to a taste of sweet untouched girl. And he could be generous and give her a thrill too, so he pushed down his pajama bottoms and boxer-briefs and held still so she could drink him in. Her sleepy eyes had gone wide, and he decided to go as slowly as her inexperience demanded. He came around the side of the bed and sank one knee into the mattress firmly enough that he created a slope she rolled down, landing right in his arms, and he could _feel_ the heat of her flushed skin when he buried his face in her neck.

*

Evie thought she had always been a pragmatist, but in truth she didn't know if that was innate or a hard lesson imparted by life with the Stubbinses; a romantic wouldn't have lasted a day, let alone the eighteen years she'd endured with her aunt, uncle, and cousin. 

Not having any talents other than a thirst for knowledge, she focused her energies on her education and won a prestigious mathematics scholarship that landed her in the Ivy League and gave her an escape route. She knew she wasn't attractive — too round, too red-haired, too freckled, and too stammering — and so never worried much over how she dressed or what she looked like; she had no means of earning money anyway, when Aunt Florence and Uncle Perry kept her at home all the time to be company for Eustace. 

She'd been as curious as the next girl about love and sex and boys — always aware she'd never live up to her mother, who'd been romantic enough to marry a boy who'd swept her off her feet when she went to England as a Rhodes Scholar, though Aunt Florence said being a know-it-all and a slut was what killed her — but had no opportunities to learn for herself. None of the boys she went to school with showed any inclination to get to know the bookworm any better, and even the sex-ed unit of Health class was a wash with Eustace on the other side of the room watching her every move.

She said _yes_ to Sebastian because she wanted to know for herself what she'd been missing. And, if she was honest, because she knew she would never again have a man so beautiful even _look_ at her, and she'd resolved to leave the timid Evie behind and be more her mother's daughter once she started her new college life.

She said yes when he expected her to say no. She said yes and everything changed.

His mouth — oh, his beautiful mouth — was on her neck like that was where it belonged, and she could feel goosebumps rise everywhere he touched while little arcs of electricity set her whole body humming. At some point her sweatpants came off and she gasped at the shock of cold until Sebastian drew one warm hand up her thigh like he was dragging a match head over a striker. His hand spread out over her bottom and then eased under her shirt to stroke her back. He was still nibbling at her neck, kissing and even biting softly, and it was no wonder girls lined up for him if he could multitask like this. 

Evie couldn't help shuddering when he nosed her chin up and kissed the underside of it. The point of his tongue touched her skin and she moaned so loudly she startled herself. His hand slid smoothly from her spine to her breast, his thumb slipping underneath it to caress humid, sticky skin no one had ever touched before. He kissed her then, the press of his mouth firm against her own. "Evie," he demanded, "open for me."

She opened her eyes obligingly but her vision was hazy. He let go of her breast long enough to get his thumb on her chin. Quickly, he pressed down and suddenly her mouth was open over his and that meant his tongue was doing things she'd never once suspected she'd be on the receiving end of. Just when she was catching his rhythm and starting to kiss him back, he rolled so she was under his warm flesh.

And she was reminded that he was stark naked, entirely beautiful, and focused solely on her. Having him braced above her made her think guiltily of how her weight must have been crushing him, but — she chanced a glance downward — his penis looked proudly uncrushed, stiff and strong against his taut belly. She curled her legs around his thighs, trying to calm down long enough to run her calculations again and make sense of what he was doing. The problem was, sleeping with her made no sense at all: having sex with her reduced him from a selfless benefactor to just another guy looking to get what he could from a girl, and she wasn't delusional enough to believe that she was capable of sparking his lust. So what was he doing this for?

"Sebastian," she whispered, and he groaned like the sound was being pulled from his belly.

"Evie," he said, and she felt a startling rush of pleasure at the confirmation that he knew it was her, that he wasn't pretending he had someone gorgeous in his bed.

"Please," she said, not knowing what she wanted but certain he would do it just right.

*

She was a witch, a wicked and enchanting creature whose instincts — _how_ had she learned to roll her hips as if every inch of her was hungry for him? — were greater than her inexperience, and he kissed down her neck and peeled her panties off. They were navy blue and they made her thighs look like cream and her curls like sparks. He traced a delicate finger around her cunt, acquainting her with his touch, and she jerked in his arms. When that finger slipped in, she seemed to go boneless.

She shook like she was caught in a howling storm and he wanted to feel every jolt for himself. He parted her curls and licked at her and she was crying, open-eyed, shining like she was lit from within. He rode the waves of her shudders with an eagerness that surprised him; she'd barely touched him and yet he wasn't feeling deprived. Her thighs were warm pillowy weights on his shoulders and he dove back in, wanting more. Her breath caught and she sobbed out her release, but he wasn't done yet. His mouth stayed on her, drinking in the taste of her, and she squirmed beneath him.

"H-how?" she asked. He kissed her thigh and surged up to take her mouth again, letting her pant against his lips as he worked her worn-thin shirt off her without parting from her more than he could stand. She felt glorious, absolutely bare beneath him.

Shit. She wouldn't be on birth control. His condom stash was downstairs, where it was useful. One look at her glazed eyes and he knew she hadn't considered any of this. Maybe he was exactly as bad as Marcus's little girlfriend thought he was, because he wanted to keep going anyway. "Evie," he said, trying to warn her.

"Mmmm," she responded, surprising the hell out of him by winding her arms around his neck and drawing him down for an absolutely filthy kiss. She was a hell of a quick learner.

He tangled his fingers with hers and brought their joined hands down. "Let me," he said, and she frowned in concentration — that look of complete attention got him even harder somehow — and stroked his dick the way he was guiding her to. Her fingers were soft and unpracticed, but the cup she made of her palm was so good he nearly spilled right then. "Open for me," he said again, and she parted her lips and her legs obediently. "God, Evie," he groaned, and pushed in.

And withdrew and pushed and kissed and pushed and fingered and pushed until he was all the way in and her calves were locked together over his ass and there were tears spilling down her cheeks. He kissed that shimmering freckle on the underside of her chin and licked up her tears, rocking gently inside her as the bed creaked and she moaned. Already he wanted to stay locked inside her as she pulsed around him, and he knew that pulling free of the hot clutch of her body was going to be next to impossible.

Her cries were echoing in his room and he _still wanted her_ even as he came all over her round and freckled belly. "Evie, Evie," he murmured, kissing blindly as he shifted down the bed, relishing how she spilled over onto his tongue. He didn't care that her thighs clapped over his ears and he went deaf; he knew all he needed from her fists in his hair.

*

She'd thought she had a good handle on Sebastian — the guy who needed to prove, to his best friend and maybe even to himself, that he was good enough to help a stranger in need but not so good that he could be imposed upon indefinitely — but his numbers weren't adding up. Kissing her . . . _there_ , before _and_ after . . . couldn't be for his benefit, and he certainly didn't have to fold her in his arms once she emerged, pink-faced with belated shyness, from the bathroom where she'd fled to get a moment to herself to think. He made no mention of the fact that she must look like a lobster, all tinged with red, instead pulling her down on his lap and using his nose and chin to open the amber-colored robe she'd stolen from the hook next to his shower.

His tongue traced her nipple like they'd done this innumerable times before, easy and familiar. He evidently knew every bit of a woman's body if he could do this with his eyes closed. He was cupping her hip and almost against her will her hand came up to comb through his golden hair. It was like petting a lion, the tawny mane and the sense of danger that radiated from him, no matter how soft his mouth was on her breast.

She gasped and clutched his head close at the thrill of teeth on her nipple. He looked up at her then and pulled his mouth free. She waited, breath caught, for him to say something, and the moment spun out, tension building, until her tummy growled.

He laughed and said, "What do you want for breakfast?" He kissed briskly between her breasts and pulled the robe's lapels closer together. "After that, fair warning, I'm unwrapping my present again." Sebastian spoke as if she couldn't possibly refuse, and Evie found, after all, she didn't want to.

"I c-can make a f-full English," she offered.

"Tough luck, sweetheart, all I've got is protein shakes and low-carb bread." He kissed her then, flustering her all over again. "Though I would like to know if your cooking is as tasty as the rest of you."

All she did around him was blush and moan his name, and that had to stop. She stood and drew the robe shut, movements decisive. "I'll t-take y-you to Cam's, to say th-thank you. For your h-hospitality."

"If that's what you want to call it, Ginger. I'll still be having you once you've got your breath back." He sounded so sure.

"I —" she faltered when he swatted her bottom on his way to the bathroom, but she made good use of the time that he was out of sight to collect her scattered clothes and put herself in some semblance of order.

She should have been thinking about how to escape him, but her whole body was tingling from being seen and touched without criticism. Oh, she was in _trouble_.

*

 _Cam's_ , Sebastian discovered with distinct displeasure, was not a cute nickname alluding to Cambridge, Massachusetts or the English river. It was the name of the proprietor, a man — whose name Evie happily pronounced in ringing tones — probably the same age as him but with a baby face that girls would go crazy for. A man who brightened at the sight of Evie and hugged her close as if she'd come in alone.

"Gadji," Cam said, murmuring into Evie's bright hair like the world existed for the two of them alone, "Happy Christmas." Of course the bastard had an English accent that was probably even more of a panty-dropper than his pretty face.

"Yeah," Sebastian drawled, hooking an arm around Evie's shoulders, not minding when the slippery fabric of her terrible jacket made his arm slip so his hand ended up on her delectable peach of a bottom, "we worked up quite an appetite earlier, thought we'd refuel here. Nice place," he said, not bothering to look anywhere but at Cam, who was meeting his eyes steadily.

Cam only smiled and led them to one of the few empty tables, and then brought them their menus himself. Sebastian looked down at the one in front of him and couldn't help laughing; the bastard had given him only the drinks menu, the side with the protein shakes face up. He was still going to grind the guy into the dust, but he wasn't above appreciating a joke. He glanced up to see what Evie was thinking of ordering, only to realize he couldn't see her at all when she had the menu up in front of her face.

When he tried to tug it down, it didn't budge. "Evie?" he asked.

"Why d-did you s-say that?" It was halfway between a mortified hiss and a stage whisper.

"What, your name?" he asked, thoroughly confused.

She dropped her menu to glare at him, red-faced. "You _t-told Cam_ wh-what we d-did this m-morning!" she accused.

Was the problem that he'd stated that her virginity was a thing of the past, or that he'd warned that damned _Cam_ off his territory? He grinned at her to cover his confusion. "And I'd do it again."

He could see her trying to figure out if he meant the bragging or the fucking, and while she puzzled over that, that adorable frown that pinched her brows together made a return. Forget whatever Cam was whipping up in the back, he wanted to feast on her, right here at this table. He nudged her knees open with his own and leaned forward but before he could utter another word, there was Cam, the very picture of efficiency with a pad, pencil, and inquisitive look.

"Ready?"

 _Born ready_ was what he wanted to say, but he contented himself with a sharp smile to warn off trespassers. He recalled what Evie'd offered before they left the haven of his tiny apartment. "Full English, with coffee." So what if he'd be in the gym for an extra hour per mouthful? What was good enough for Evie was good enough for him. 

Only she didn't ask for the same. Cam whispered in a tone that pretty much screamed _inside joke_ , "Half-English, miss?" and Evie smiled, dimples popping up like weeds, and nodded and — without a single stammer — thanked him. As if the guy'd done anything more than say a few words. Sebastian picked up his knife and fork and scraped one along the other just to give himself something to do that wasn't stewing over her reaction to a short-order cook.

He tasted none of his meal but made sure to wolf down every last bite because he had plans for Evie that would require every ounce of energy he could muster.

*

Aunt Florence had always had something to say about her appetite — whether to imply that she had better things to do than cook for someone who'd only pick at her plate or to state outright that greedy pigs ought to remember that there were starving children somewhere in the world — but Evie was astonished by how much Sebastian could pack away when he set his mind to it. Where did he put it all? There wasn't a bit of fat on him; he was all sleek muscle and golden skin. 

She herself was pleasantly full on Cam's kedgeree — not on the menu but always available for her ever since he'd discovered, her first week in Cambridge, that her dad lived on King Street, London, where Cam had been born and raised. She hadn't been to see her dad since she was twelve, but she remembered the chippy around the corner and the curry house down the street that he'd taken her to; having food that would be familiar to him was the easiest way for her to reassert their connection. Today it was doubly important, not only because it was Christmas but also since his housing funds hadn't come through and he hadn't sent a letter to explain the interruption.

She slid awkwardly out of the booth when she finished her food, noting that Sebastian still had his eggs and mushrooms to go. "I j-just need to t-talk to Cam —" she started to say, hoping she could convince him that her calling card would cover a call from his café landline to her dad's flat, but found herself unable to move when Sebastian clamped a hand over her arm. "Wh-what are y-you d-doing?"

"Talk to me instead of Cam," he said, and it didn't sound like a suggestion. It sounded like an order.

Her temper flared. She was already buying him breakfast to say thank you, and that was the end of the bargain; he didn't get to presume that sex gave him any kind of rights over her. "I n-need a f-favor from Cam —" she started again, trying in vain to shake off his grip.

"Sit down. We'll talk about it at home," he said.

"It's n-not m-my home," she pointed out, quite reasonably, but that seemed to touch a nerve.

"Sit. Down."

"Evie," said a new voice, and she turned to see Cam approaching, "what do you need?"

"I n-need to c-call my dad, and I kn-know you have a l-landline," she said, ignoring the intense glare Sebastian was leveling at them both; if his eyes were capable of shooting laser beams, he'd be doing it.

"Of course," Cam said, pretending not to see Sebastian's reaction. "Right this way."

Sebastian had to let go at that point, and he did it with a little huff that stated she hadn't heard the last of this. Why this was such a big deal to him she couldn't begin to guess, but that was a puzzle for another time. Cam showed her to the phone in his office, closed the door, and left her to it. After all that drama, it was a huge let-down that her dad didn't pick up and the phone just kept doing its odd double ring for well over a minute. She finally hung up and made her way back to the table, where Sebastian was glowering.

"Are you back in the dorms, then?" he asked, his tone clipped.

"He d-didn't p-pick up," she said, now truly worried. He lived alone, had done for as long as she could remember, but she'd never been anxious about him before; he was a big bruiser of a man, eminently capable of taking care of himself.

"Oh," Sebastian said, sounding subdued. "You must be — you can try again later. My bar has a landline too."

"Th-thank you," she said, surprised. "D-did you w-want anything e-else?"

"Yes."

"Okay." She looked around for Cam, ready to wave him over to take Sebastian's new order, but Sebastian caught her hands in his, this grip far gentler and more caressing than he'd been ten minutes earlier.

"I want you. On top this time, and we'll go from there." His tone wasn't flat, exactly, but it was relentless, like nothing on earth would stop him from getting what he wanted. For that to be _her_ was mind-boggling.

"I —" she paused, unsure of what to say. She'd never known pleasure like he'd shown her, but she also knew better than to get entangled with someone so notorious for doing exactly what he wanted, consequences be damned.

He continued, apparently not caring if anyone overheard him. "Did you like it when I put my tongue inside you? What do you think would happen if I kept doing that without stopping, even if you begged, even if you screamed, until I'd finally had enough of your sweet taste?"

She had to be fire-engine red now; she could feel the heat of her flushed skin rise so sharply she could singe her clothes to cinders. He thought she tasted _sweet_?

"Would you stay hushed, choking on your own breath and pulling me in closer still, or let loose and try to rip me apart?" he continued, his words driving her to distraction. "You've never knelt — I'd like to be the first one to put you on your knees."

"I'm — I'm r-ready to g-go," she said, trying to stop the words he spilled out, the images he painted sapping her strength. Too late, she realized she sounded all the more eager to make his desires a reality. Fishing cash out of her pocket was made more difficult by the arm he wrapped around her, but she managed eventually and led the way to the door.

The day was cold but bright and the sun was in her eyes, making it difficult to see. She was tugging her cap over her head and trying to ignore Sebastian, half a step behind; she didn't notice the man stepping out of the shadows until she saw light glittering on the blade of his knife. "Your purse," he demanded, and she could see his confusion — when he realized she wasn't carrying one — turn to rage. "Gimme your money, bitch," he insisted, waving his knife around.

She froze, unable to think or move. When a hand yanked at her from behind, she went pliantly until she blinked and she could see Sebastian easing his perfect body between her and the mugger. She stepped forward again but Sebastian's hand shot out and kept her behind him. He hadn't even turned to look at her. What was he _doing_? Why was he putting himself in danger?

*

That man — filthy and shaking — had not approached Evie to ask for help or spare change. He'd pulled a knife on her, and Sebastian saw red. Pulling Evie away, he stepped into her place, frustrated when she tried to edge back toward him; didn't she know he wouldn't let anything happen to her? Hadn't he said, in the plainest words he could muster, that he wanted her, wanted her more than anything?

The mugger looked all the more enraged at the substitution, desperate to hurt someone. "Wait," Sebastian said, trying to remember what he had in his wallet. "I'm getting my money." But the man either didn't understand him or was too keyed up by the sight of Evie, soft and beautiful, to listen; he made a grab for her, Sebastian moved to block him, and the knife cut through his shirt — he loved that shirt, and if he'd only buttoned up his peacoat before stepping out of Cam's his shirt wouldn't have been sliced open — and then his defenseless flesh.

"No!" he could hear Evie scream — hadn't he said _he_ would make her scream? — and the mugger, evidently startled by the sound, took off running. Out of the corner of his eye, Sebastian could see Cam and a few of his employees spilling out of the café. He thought one of the busboys took off after the mugger and another got out her cellphone, hopefully to call the cops. Cam came over and grabbed him and called the busboy back; between them, they got him back inside. His footsteps dragged reluctantly as they steered him to an office with a big desk — it must have been where Evie had tried to make her call. Cam swapped places with Evie and cleared the desk swiftly while Sebastian buried his face in Evie's hair and tried not to think about what might have been on the knife.

He was surprised when Evie hopped up on the desk, perching there like she was purely decorative, though her face had gone paper-white, making every freckle stand out in stark contrast. Cam and the busboy — his nametag said Hector — laid him down on the desk and put his head in Evie's cushiony lap. She pulled up his shirt, dotted with blood, and put one warm hand over his heart and the other on his forehead. He didn't want to look down to see the mess of his abdomen; he looked up instead and saw his favorite freckle, the one on the underside of her pretty chin, glimmering at him like the North Star. His gaze drifted up to Evie's downturned face and he saw her eyes glowing with emotion and tears as they met his.

She was crying _for him_.

Lost in contemplation of how easily she'd let him become someone worth crying over, he heard none of Cam's and Hector's assessment of his wound, just the rumble of their voices. He was startled when Evie's head jerked up and she spoke. "He's really okay?" she asked, a note of pleading in her voice.

"Barely a scratch, Evie," Cam dismissed. "I get worse in the kitchen all the time."

"Just needs to be washed, miss, and he'll be fine," Hector chimed in, and Sebastian wanted to know where the two of them got their nerve. He was in pain . . . actually, a lot less pain than before. It felt like he'd gotten a papercut the length of his belly, which was far from pleasant but nothing to break out medical supplies for.

"Saline?" Evie ventured to suggest, and Cam smiled at her, thumbed away a tear from her round cheek, and agreed.

Being a hero made for a shitty day job, apparently; Sebastian endured having the slice washed out with saltwater and having to get off Evie's welcoming lap, which was far more difficult. He'd go back to villainy in a heartbeat, except that she was still looking at him with adoring gratitude and there was no way he could turn his back on that.

*

Evie got Sebastian into bed with orders to rest and then slipped downstairs to put up a sign saying Blue Ruin was closed until the weekend. While she was down there, she used the phone hanging on the wall to call her father again, still not getting an answer.

She headed back upstairs and found Sebastian sitting up against the headboard and scowling at her. "What?" she asked, taken aback.

He seemed equally surprised to be called out, and his scowl melted into an uncertain frown. "No, nothing," he said, looking up at her from under his messy hair. He wasn't wearing a shirt, and really, she should have gotten used to the sight of him topless by now and not let it affect her breathing. "My laptop's over there," he said, gesturing vaguely to the club chair in the corner. "You could see if your dad sent you a message."

"Thanks," she said, touched. She pulled the laptop off the chair seat and headed back for the bed, climbing in as gingerly as possible; she wanted to be close in case Sebastian needed anything. Her email had nothing from her dad, but there was a note from Lilly saying she'd be back in Boston in time for lunch tomorrow. She looked up to find he was watching her, his eyes concerned and almost tender. She remembered that he'd been hurt — not badly, but _willingly_ — for her. She wanted to kiss him.

"Nothing?" he guessed when she shut the laptop and put it on the bedside table.

She shook her head, trying to work up the nerve to make a move, uncertain how to begin. He was strangely quiet while she considered and discarded various options, breathing softly and keeping his ice-blue gaze on her. In the end, she swayed toward him and pressed her open mouth to his.

*

Evie's sweet mouth on his was a surprise. He'd been torturing himself while she was down in the bar with the memory of how good she and Cam looked together — how Cam had been the one she turned to for reassurance, for comfort, how they seemed to understand each other instinctively, how her stammer vanished around him — and wondering how much he should play up his pain if that was how he could get her to stay.

It astonished him still, how very much he wanted her to _stay_.

Her kiss was light as a dream, and he wasn't sure if he could let himself believe it was real. Hesitantly, his hands came up to cup her head, his fingers tangling in her wild hair, and the kiss was soft and wet and slow. She shifted so that her knees were spread around his hips and her bottom found a home on his thighs, and one of his arms slipped to her waist. He gathered her a little closer while he pulled his mouth free reluctantly. "Stay," he asked. "Stay with me. Take a chance on me."

There was a dawning wonder on her face. "You break all the rules of probability, you know." She punctuated this puzzling statement with another kiss, one hand warm on his jaw. She nuzzled his cheek and ear. "It's hardly a chance I'd be taking."

"Are you saying I'm a sure thing?" he asked, unsure whether to be insulted.

She smiled that gloriously slow smile at him. "Are you not?"

"For you, I am," he said, and kissed her again.


End file.
